


Fragments

by your_bro_joe



Category: Django Unchained (2012)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/M, Implied Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 05:29:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/your_bro_joe/pseuds/your_bro_joe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the blast hits Schultz, time stops.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fragments

When the blast hits Schultz, time stops.

A thousand fragmented memories zip through Django’s mind as each bit of metal pierces the doctor’s skin, and he hates the man for doing this to them—him and Hilde—so close to freedom, to a new life that might have kept Schultz in it, and he loves the man for getting them this far, at least far enough to see his wife again, and hold her in his arms, even if it was the last time. No, it won’t be. He’ll make sure of that.

Time drags on as Schultz hits the bookcase, slumps to the floor, stops breathing, and Django feels a little piece of his heart fall with him, drenched in blood and cold and mountain snow.

Memories. Memories of meeting Hilde, of their first kiss, of falling in love, of jumping the broom. Memories of torture they’d endured, of running away, of getting caught and separated. Memories of Schultz teaching him to shoot, of his first kill, of his first bounty. Memories of calloused hands, so unlike his wife’s, of chapped lips, of a scratchy beard against his skin.

He is truly vengeful when the shooting starts in earnest.

Every bullet piercing one of the men who’d tortured the ones he loves brings forth an unbidden thought.

“You gettin’ stronger,” Hilde teases when he lifts her up, presses her back against a tree as she wraps her legs around his waist. They’d come out here for privacy, away from the cramped slave cabin, far enough so that when Hilde starts moaning, no one’s around to tell her to shut up.

The door to the big house flies open, and more white men pour in. Django shoots them one by one.

He’s silent as Schultz runs his hands over the whip scars on his back, acutely aware of each movement. But Schultz doesn’t touch him like other white men do, with force or morbid curiosity. His fingertips are gentle, soothing, almost apologetic, and Django realizes why the older man had asked to see his scars in the first place. Or, at least, he’d thought he had, until he feels something that is not a hand touch his back; feels the scratch of a beard, and when warm breath escapes the parted lips on his skin, he pulls away.

When he turns around, Schultz looks sheepish. “My apologies,” he says, not missing a beat, “though I try not to show it, I have always been a very tactile man by nature. I suppose I got a bit carried away, there.” He chuckles, smile not quite reaching his eyes. “I hope my indiscretion will not negatively affect our partnership.”

Django watches him, trying to suss out his meaning. “Naw,” he says eventually, “naw, it’s okay. I just wasn’t expectin’ it, ‘s’all.”

Schultz nods and claps his hands once. “Very good! Now, put your shirt back on, Django my boy, it’s freezing out here!”

Blood splatters across his face as he pulls a gun from a dead man’s holster.

Hilde rests her head on his chest as they lie under the stars, cushioned by her dress and his shirt and pants for a pillow. It’s hot enough they don’t need a blanket to cover their naked skin, and Django is grateful, running his hand over the unmarred skin of her bare back.

“One day, we gonna be free,” she whispers, shifting to look at his face.

“Oh yeah?” he smiles, pulling her closer. “And what’re we gonna do then?”

“I don’t know,” she smiles, and he wants to kiss her, but lets her finish her thought, “whatever free folks do. Live in a house without ten other people. Have a baby we get to keep and raise.” She lays a hand over his heart. “Be happy.”

He pulls an armoire down, ducks under it, realizes he’s out of bullets.

He doesn’t mind when Schultz pulls his bedroll up right next to his for warmth. He’s slept in closer quarters with men who smelled much worse than the doctor. He’s getting used to that smell, of soap and German cologne and something else he can’t quite name other than to call it “Schultz”.

It’s strongest when the other man is so close to him they might as well only use one bedroll, but Django doesn’t mind it. Subconsciously, he encourages it, rolling over to face the other man and wrapping his arms around him, telling himself it’s just to ward off the chill night air. He can’t lie to himself anymore, though, when he remembers the feeling of Schultz’s hands on him and wants more; rests his hand on the doctor’s hip and shudders when his beard rubs against his chin, mustache against his nose, and lips against his mouth.

Stephen calls out to him, and through the haze of red, he sees the gun against Hilde’s temple.

Hilde speaks German to him sometimes; sometimes sweet things that she teaches him the meaning of, sometimes nonsense just to giggle when he tries to repeat them. Schultz spoke German to him too, but Django is certain all the things he said had meaning. He remembers some of them as things Hilde taught him. “Du bist stattlich.” “Mein Schatz.” “Ich liebe dich.”

When Stephen tells him the only way Hilde won’t be killed is if he surrenders, he finally throws his gun and walks out with his hands raised.

He already lost one of them; he refuses to lose them both.


End file.
